


Memories and Photographs

by incogneat_oh



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Batdad, Found Family, Gen, Jason Todd: a good-natured bully, Nostalgia, Photographs, batfamily, weird families bonding weirdly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 03:28:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13309476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incogneat_oh/pseuds/incogneat_oh
Summary: Alfred leaves the family photo albums out.





	Memories and Photographs

–

 

It’s late afternoon when Damian first discovers the albums.

He’d skulked into one of the sitting rooms the family had been favouring, lately, a warm parlour that had started as a secret reading spot for Tim. (Dick, though, had discovered it soon enough, started hanging out there in anticipation for Tim’s visits. And Bruce, who enjoys silence but only sometimes solitude, had taken to working or reading in the corner chair.)

The room was empty, for once. And stacked neatly on the table were two large, unfamiliar books. Leather-bound, expensive looking. Damian felt his familiar frown deepening, in something like curious indignation. He lives here. He is Bruce’s biological son. Nothing in this house should be unfamiliar to him, especially in the _so-called_ ‘family room’ _._

But it doesn’t mean he won’t close the door behind him. Won’t skulk, a little, feet soft and careful on the carpets, just in case.

He settles on the plush sofa (tall enough he has to partly lift himself on his hands to sit down, and has to wriggle, a bit, to sit all the way back, which makes Grayson smirk insufferably) and tips forward, experimentally resting his hand on a gold-embossed cover.

He glances around furtively, at the empty room, before he hauls the first volume onto his lap.

And he lets it fall open.

-

“Alfred got them out,” says a voice, some indeterminate time later, and Damian nearly jumps clean out of his skin. “The photo albums.”

He feels his scowl fall naturally in to place, says, “Father.” _They should put a bell on you_ is unspoken, but heavily implied. And then Damian freezes guiltily. Because he’s been caught.

His hands carefully relax on top of the oil-free paper. He doesn’t want to risk damaging it, shouldn’t make his punishment any worse than it is. He waits, stiff-shouldered, for– _something_ , for a reprimand or some sort of physical retribution.

But Bruce just sits beside him on the sofa, half-tugging the huge book into his own lap. He says, “Alfred wanted to put up some more family photos. He wanted to look through his options.” He smiles, fondly, and points– says, “Alfred took this one only a little while after Dick had moved in with us. He was a bit younger than you are, now.”

Damian stares down at the shot. Grayson is standing hands-on-hips and looking ridiculous in an oversized jacket, grinning wide enough his eyes are crinkled shut. He’d even looked ludicrous as a child.

And Bruce murmurs, “I hadn’t got around to looking through them again,” and then, “Do you mind if I join you, Damian?”

“Of course, Father,” Damian says (though if he’s honest, he’s confused by the question).

Bruce takes that as permission to move a bit closer, warmth and hard muscle and the smell of his aftershave all pressed against Damian’s side. His aftershave is different to Dick’s, and it prickles in Damian’s nostrils. Unfamiliar. The weight of Bruce’s arm, over his shoulders, is also a new sensation. 

Damian supposes he could learn to appreciate the feeling.

And he glances quickly up at his father’s face, then back to the album. He feels his nose wrinkle into its familiar state of disdain, says, “Has Grayson’s smile always looked that goofy?”

Bruce laughs, a small but warm sound that Damian hasn’t heard enough of. And he says, “More or less.”

Damian hedges, “I bet you hoped he would grow out of it.”

“It’s… cute,” Bruce says. Clearly for lack of a better word, but there’s a fond twist at the corner of his lips. “You can’t deny he’s very charming. It was always… difficult, to say no to him, as a child." 

"Father, you have difficulty saying no to him now,” Damian says flatly.

And Bruce shakes him, a bit, but it’s gentle, murmurs, “You know that expression about throwing stones and glass-houses?” so Damian wisely shuts up. 

Bruce turns the page, revealing another two full pages of snapshots of a young Dick Grayson. One in a school uniform, proudly displaying a test paper with an A+ written in bright red over the top of the page. And says, like some sort of peace offering, “He has that effect on most people.” To himself, shaking his head, he breathes, “The crying is the worst.”

“Amen to that, Father,” Damian mumbles. He had only seen Grayson cry twice, but would happily do anything to avoid repeating the experience.

And they flip through a few more pages together in silence, finding photos of a young Dick Grayson clinging cheerfully to Bruce’s dress slacks and clearly chattering away, apparently unaware of the camera. Another of him kneeling, very carefully, on a kitchen stool with a piping bag and his tongue stuck out the corner of his mouth. Some of Bruce himself, looking younger and smirking wryly at the camera. 

Damian is so distracted that he’s caught off guard for the second time for the day when Dick Grayson, (fully grown but apparently having not ever _stopped_ smiling) cries, “Ooh, photos!” and he takes the album from under Bruce’s slackened hand, and flops back onto the sofa, between Bruce and Damian.

There is not nearly enough room for it.

He winds up – half-squished between them, but mostly on top.

“Father was just saying you’re a bully,” Damian grunts, and Dick looks _wounded_.

“What?” he says, wide-eyed at Bruce, who laughs. Seemingly not irritated by his half-lapful of his eldest son.

“The word I used, Damian, was 'charming’,” he explains, and Dick, appeased, starts getting comfortable, the album spread over his knees.

“Grayson, you are smothering me with your monstrous thighs,” the eleven year old snaps, trying to shove him to no avail.

“I’m sorry, Dami,” he says, immediate, too contrite to be sincere. But at least he moves. 

And somehow, so quickly Damian isn’t sure how it happened, he finds their positions switched. Grayson in his spot, him fully in Grayson’s lap. Supporting the still-open photo album. “Much better,” he says, happily, and cuddles Damian against him. He tucks his chin into Damian’s shoulder, presses his cheek against Damian’s to see the photos. 

Damian growls in his throat and tries to pull away, kicking his feet out, and Bruce just says, “No.” so Damian stops. And then, “Dick, would you please unhand him?”

And Dick sighs, sadly. Then, like a warning, “Okay, but D? One day, you’re gonna be too big for this, and you’re gonna regret this day.”

“I think I’ll survive, Grayson,” he says archly, and gets a firm kiss on the cheek before being released. 

Dick moves aside, so Damian is (not uncomfortably) sandwiched between Grayson and his father. It's… a rather nice sensation.

And Dick says, “You were such a handsome devil in your youth, Bruce.”

“Thank you,” Bruce says, flatly, but it doesn’t sound like gratitude. Dick grins at him over Damian’s head, before something catches his eye; “Hoo-boy,” Dick says, nose wrinkling. “I sure did grow into my ears, huh?”

“Did you?” Damian says nastily, and Bruce rolls his eyes.

Dick, oblivious, says “Bruce oh my god, how could you not have like… taped them back, or something. That's– it’s practically child abuse.”

Patiently, faintly amused, Bruce says, “You’re being ridiculous, Dick. There’s nothing wrong with your ears.”

Dick freezes, still staring down at the page. And then, “ _Holy shit I am going to kill Wally.”_  

Bruce and Damian share an eyebrow raise, before he hisses, 

“ _He said he called me 'Dumbo’ for the circus reference!!_ That little _shit!”_

“I never liked that boy,” Bruce says, like an afterthought, because Dick’s already out the door and fuming with it. 

Bruce looks back at the album, a laugh sitting on his bottom lip, and Damian. Well, Damian moves a little closer, under the guise of examining a photo (this one of a teenaged-Grayson, skinny and gangly and awkward, clutching an oversized backpack and what looks like a sleeping-bag). And his father doesn’t seem to mind at all.

–

Jason’s sprawled on his stomach atop the couch, trying his best to scowl at one of the photo albums.  

(It’s not really working.)

He’s still on the early pages, flipping through photos of Dick’s youthful antics. Bruce is reading in the armchair, eyeing him and smiling slightly. And Jason, unaware of the scrutiny, lets a fond smile replace the frown. Shaking his head in bemusement. Until–

“Admiring my handsome mug, are we?”

Jason rolls his eyes, scowl returning immediately. “I’m lookin’ at the guest-list for this conversation, Dickie, and you aren’t on it.”

Dick, in the doorway, reels back and clutches his chest. Feigning injury. He says, “ _Ouch_ , Jay." 

"Yeah, yeah,” and he flaps a hand at Dick as he comes closer, trying to look at the album. 

“Sit up, wouldja? Where’m I s'posed to sit?” Dick makes as if to sit on Jason’s outstretched legs, but thinks better of it at Jason’s flat stare. He pouts, and winds up sitting on the floor between Bruce and Jason.

“There’s a perfectly good chair over there,” Bruce offers, raising an eyebrow, and Dick just tilts his head backwards to scowl in Bruce’s general direction. So Bruce returns to his book.

And Jay snorts, says, “Oh my _God_ , B, your adam’s apple looks like a tennis ball. You look _scrawny_ here, how’d you ever get Alfred to letcha patrol?”

He glances up to meet Bruce’s decidedly unamused gaze and smothers a laugh. Then he returns to the book, flipping through it lazily. “Photogenic little shit,” he says, which seems to be directed at Dick, who flips his hair ironically and smiles a dimpled smile. Then Jason hits him over the head. He ignores Dick’s yelp and continues scanning the pages, mouth flattening on one side– a smile or frown, it’s hard to tell. 

Alfred, from behind him, says, “I believe, sir, that photo was taken in your first week with us.”

Jason doesn’t jump, instead smiling up at the old man. He says, “I– yeah, I remember. You’d just spent a couple hours combing all the knots and tangles outta my hair. You said it was an occasion worth recording.”

“And look where it got me, sir,” Alfred says severely, brushing a hand over Jason’s matted mane.

Jason just laughs, partly amused and partly guilty in that way only Alfred can inspire. “Hey,” before he looks back down, and then, “ _Hey_ , I do _not_ remember going through a fat-stage–”

Dick scrambles upright for the book, Bruce looking up in sudden interest. 

“ _How_ could you not tell me, Bruce?” and Jason’s still staring at the album, half-laughing and half-horrified. Dick, meanwhile, is sprawled across the floor with his elbows on the couch, neck craned and mouth open. “It’s the sort of thing I should know, 'specially if there’s photographic evidence–”

“That’s not a fat-stage,” Dick says dismissively, sounding disappointed. Like he got excited for nothing.

“Are you joking, Goldie? Look at that pudge! I have a pot-belly!”

“Don’t be dumb,” Dick says, rolling his eyes. “It’s a big shirt, look, I think it was one of mine, even.”

“If by ’ _fat_ ’, Master Jason, you mean to say _no longer malnourished_ , that is true. I spent a dedicated few weeks after your arrival ensuring you ate healthy, balanced meals full of necessary vitamins–”

“Yes, thank you Alfred,” Jason says dutifully. “I am very grateful you kept me healthy, it was not my intention to insult you or belittle your hard work.”

“Are you _quite_ sure, sir?” Alfred says. “That didn’t come through the point you seemed to be making.”

“Alfred,” Jason says, patiently, while Bruce and Dick hide smiles. “I am not _blaming_ you for my fat-stage. I just was taken by surprise by the photos, okay?" 

Alfred makes a _hmm_ sound on his way for the door, and Jason sighs. His head hits the couch arm with a thud, and Dick snickers.

Bruce, meanwhile, rolls his eyes, says "You two are insecure about the strangest stuff.”

Jason raises an eyebrow at Dick, who mutters “ears”, and Jason nods. “I see that.”

“You were both cute kids,” Bruce says, eyes still on his book. “Quit being so hard on yourselves.”

Jason’s mouth falls open, and he turns to look at Dick where he sits on the floor.

'Did he just–?’ Dick mouths, and Jason nods, wide-eyed.

–

“Do you just never get photos of us in costume, Alfred?” Dick asks, after dinner.

He’s sprawled over the plush carpets, albums pooled in front of him. He’s flicking through them slowly, and fondly. Telling his brothers anecdotes about some photos, asking about others.

Damian, valiantly pretending not to pay attention, is holding an open book. But his eyes aren’t moving across the page, and he let loose a hurriedly-smothered laugh at one of Dick’s more ridiculous stories.

“I’m sure I remember you bringing the camera down to the Cave,” Dick continues thoughtfully, rolling onto his stomach and swinging his legs behind him. 

Jason, on the couch behind, wraps a big hand around Dick’s ankle and temporarily stills his flailing limb. Says, “Yeah, you took pictures of me in costume. I remember Bruce getting pissy about it, coz I made a pun about the Flash.”

Dick laughs, and Jason releases his foot. Bruce exhales, loudly, through his nose. 

“In answer to your question, Master Richard,” Alfred cuts in smoothly, from his chess-game with Tim, set up by the window. “I have a few secret albums, as a part of my private collection.”

Tim looks up from the board to meet Alfred’s eye. He glances around before he mouths 'Me too’.

And Alfred can’t help but smile, even when Tim sets his bishop down with an air of finality. “Checkmate." 

–

Dick traces the lines of Jason’s smiling face, with his eyes and his fingertips. Lips twitching, but it’s bittersweet. 

 It would be hard _not_ to smile, looking at this picture– Jason all of thirteen years old in his newly-tailored suit, looking up at Bruce. Both of them are smiling at each other, unaware of the camera. Bruce is caught in the middle of a laugh, hands carefully fiddling with Jason’s collar, and Dick can imagine Bruce’s next motion, of smoothing down Jason’s mussed-up bangs. 

The next photo is one of Bruce, scowling good-naturedly at the person behind the lens (obviously Alfred). He’s caught midway between laughter and his _I’m Serious, Alfred_ , Bat-face, so he winds up looking soft and honest and fond. The third photo, the same night, is Alfred looking immaculate in a tuxedo, one gloved hand outstretched expectantly, apparently for the camera. But he, too, is laughing.

The photo after that is another candid shot, Jason’s arms wrapped around Bruce’s middle in an enthused, childish hug, chattering away. Then there’s a posed one, Bruce’s hand over Jason’s shoulder, Jason beaming in his best attire. 

"You’re up late,” and Dick jumps a mile, feels oddly guilty. Voyeuristic. Like he’d been intruding on Jason and Bruce’s family, his precious few good memories. 

Jason’s in the doorway, wearing a pair of boxer shorts and a Metallica shirt that’s seen better days. 

“So are you,” Dick tells him, pretending like he didn’t just have a heart attack. 

Jason just shrugs, walks into the room on bare feet. “Couldn’t sleep.”

And Dick ignores his childish urge to hide the photos against his chest when Jason sits beside him, still warm from sleep where their shoulders touch. But Jason doesn’t say anything except, “Still looking at the photo albums, huh?”

He nods. 

And the silence is almost companionable until Jason says, “Can I ask something?” and, without waiting for a reply, he presses- “What’s up with the baby bird’s photos?" 

"What do you mean?” Dick’s forehead wrinkles. “I haven’t gotten to them yet. I’m working through the albums chronologically. I’m still on Robin numero dos.”

“Well, Robin tres will take a lot less time to get through. There’s a couple school photos, one or two posed shots. Maybe ten, fifteen photos all up. Half of them are with you, on the same night,” Jason says. Adds, “You had a cast on and he looked real beat up, but you looked happy enough.”

Dick remembers that night. And, realising Jason’s still waiting on an answer, “I– oh. Well, it would make sense,” Dick says, fingers clenching absently. “His parents weren’t really around much, y'know?”

“And after he came here?” Jason asks. But Dick thinks he already knows the answer. 

“Bruce didn’t really… accept him. For a long time. He kept Tim at arm's length." 

There’s silence for a bit. 

And then, with a smile that isn’t entirely forced, "Plus, Timmy’s kind of the photographer of the family. He’s more comfortable taking photos than being in them.”

Jay scoffs a bit, then, but Dick isn’t sure what it’s in relation to. 

He flips to the next page.

–

“Smile, Babybird!" 

_Click_.

–

Bruce is in his study when he hears a commotion outside. He doesn’t move from the chair, just cocks his head to listen.

"God _dammit_ , Jason, would you quit it with the camera?” that sounds like Tim. Crabby, pre-coffee, end-of-his-tether Tim. “For this last _week_ it seems like every time I turn around, you’re clicking that damn thing in my face.”

“Loath as I am to agree with Drake,” Damian’s voice, sharp and standoffish. “This habit is not nearly as endearing as you believe it to be, Todd.”

“Just– give the camera back to Alfred or whoever else you took it from–”

“It’s mine, thank you,” Jason sounds miffed. But Bruce knows him better than anyone, can hear the barely-contained glee and amusement beneath the faux-annoyance. “I _bought_ it. I even got a receipt for it, somewhere at my place.” And then, sounding hurt, “I _do_ detective stuff, you know. For work. Crime scene photos, and shit.”

“Well unless we’re your future victims–” Damian snarls. 

_Click_.

A moment of silence. Then,

“ _TODD_!" 

"That’s a cute one. You look like your dad–” and there’s some thumping as one, or two, or all three of them race down the hall, and he can hear Jason’s gleeful laughter. A faintly breathless, “What? I’m not allowed to record this shit? For posterity? Even nostalgia?” And, “What about poor Alfred’s collection–?”

And they’re off again, Damian cussing in Arabic against the sounds of Jason’s laughter. The noise, thankfully, fades into the background, the further they run from his office. 

Bruce returns to his work. (He decides not to wonder what that was about.)

–

It’s a little under a week later when Alfred’s photos are finalised. 

On a wall above the mantle, in dark-wooden frames, his boys look out onto the parlour. 

Dick, probably 15, beaming wide, head tipped to one side. Looking up at the camera, because he hadn’t yet hit his growth-spurt.

Jason, barely a teen, smirking at the camera with one eyebrow raised, arms folded. Looking every bit like the juvenile delinquent he wasn’t.

Tim, a few days ago– caught mid-laugh, fondness sitting heavy on the curve of his bottom lip. In a rumpled shirt and loose tie, fresh from work.

Damian, caught at a smile, almost a year ago. (Probably the last time he smiled. Lucky Alfred had had the camera out.) 

The final photo, under the first four, is Bruce and Alfred standing shoulder-to-shoulder. 

(Tim had taken the shot, had them stand at one end of the hall, Bruce barely covering a scowl. But Tim had said, “Hang on, just fixing my settings–” and then “Talk amongst yourselves,” while he fiddled absently with the camera functions, because it was getting awkward. But the moment Bruce had found himself relaxing, chuckling down at Alfred, the tell-tale _click_ had sounded. 

Tim had just smiled, said, “I think Jason had it right. Candid shots are definitely the way to go.”)

Alfred steps back, examining the wall critically. But really, he thinks. It’s perfect.

**-END-**

**Author's Note:**

> This is also on [tumblr!](http://incogneat-oh.tumblr.com/post/38382540600/memories-and-photographs)


End file.
